


ANTENNA

by Winddrag0n



Series: Deadmeat [8]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Consensual Non-Consent, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Sex Toys, Sort Of, They Flip, Violent Sex, also sort of, dubcon, the bed does not survive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26576971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winddrag0n/pseuds/Winddrag0n
Summary: He’s sick and fucking tired of everyone telling him what’s best for himself. Fuck Hannibal for telling him he needs to ‘talk about it’. Fuck Merde and his stupid shitty gang for interrupting his night, for stopping him from bashing that pervert’s face in with the wrench until his brain leaked out his ears. Fuckeveryone.Fruitlessly, he hopes walking back to the house will purge this feeling but all it does is dull and fade into the background. By the time he returns home he’s shivering, never quite sure if it’s from the cold or the feelings stuck inside of him.Hannibal is asleep in the bedroom, illuminated by the moonlight. All at once the feelings solidify into one overpowering desire. Will smiles and embraces the urge tobreak.--Will is pushed to his limits and takes it out on Hannibal.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Deadmeat [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1514474
Comments: 7
Kudos: 77





	ANTENNA

**Author's Note:**

> Introducing: the mafia! They won't be as big of a focus going forward, I just needed to introduce the entire situation and it got kind of out of hand. They're also insanely violent. I figure if the show is full of so much over-the-top violence, the mob would be just the same in this universe, right? Right? Makes sense to me! The graphic violence tag is mostly to be safe since most of it is off-screen, but there are some graphic lines in this. 
> 
> Honestly, this entire piece is a mess of blurred lines and grey areas. If you feel that I've missed a tag I should have added, please tell me so!

Will had been uncharacteristically optimistic in hoping that Brise de Mer had been asking him for help as a sort of one-off occurrence. Uncharacteristically foolish, he amends, looking up at the obnoxiously large mansion he’s now visiting for the third time this month. Things were tense enough with Hannibal constantly trying to get him to talk about what happened in college and absolutely refusing to ease up or back off of the manner. It had started a fight on more than one occasion, one recent enough that he still bears the bruise across his jaw. The absolute  _ last  _ thing he needed was something else to fray his already wearing nerves.

He doesn’t need to knock on the door- they’ve been expecting him, of course. The same man as always opens it to greet him; tall, imposing, dressed in a dark suit and sunglasses. Classic mobster outfit. It was  _ really  _ starting to piss Will off and he can’t quite catch his tongue in time. “Seriously?” he mutters, giving the man a once-over. “Look, I don’t give a shit if the boss doesn’t want to involve themselves in this crap, but you could at  _ least  _ stop it with this idiotic charade. I’m not fucking stupid.”

The man pauses. When he speaks, it’s very carefully. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” the fake boss tells him. 

“Whatever,” Will grumbles. “Just take me where I need to go.”

Thankfully, the man does so without further comment. They walk throughout the house, taking a turn and emerging once more, onto a terrace leading out into a garden.

Well, it used to be a terrace. Right now it’s mostly a destroyed mess. Whatever fight happened here, it spilled out into the garden and into a fountain sadly leaking water. The fake boss kicks the remains of a wooden chair out of the way for them and Will cannot help but comment. “Shoddily made,” he murmurs, kicking the embarrassment of a furnishing further away.

Fake Boss pauses again and Will bites back a scream. “You… make furniture?”

“Yes,” Will smiles, wide and manic. “Unfortunately I do.”

“Hmm.” It looks like something the man is filing away for later. Well, Hannibal  _ had  _ mentioned something about Will selling all the things he kept aimlessly creating. If he has to start making furniture faster than the brutes in this house keep breaking them, he may have to quit his job at the docks.

Perks of dating a doctor/serial killer- he doesn’t have to worry about asking for health insurance. 

“The fountain, right?” Will waves a hand over to it. “Can’t do shit about the broken stonework but I should be able to get the plumbing working again. Where’s the water shutoff?”

At least they did a much better job cleaning before asking him to come, this time. Taking apart a garbage disposal and getting hit in the face with the mangled remains of a severed finger had triggered a colorful rant the last time he had been called. Likely ill-advised, but hey- they hired him for his skill and his total lack of a reaction to varying levels of gore, not for his sunny disposition. 

They also chose him for being easy to blackmail. That one Hannibal wasn’t currently aware of and Will was hoping it would stay that way for quite some time.

Naturally, it didn’t. Every conversation he had with Hannibal lately was pointed and tense, and with the anger building and building it was no surprise when some of it burst out of him. The following day was no different. 

“Will, you must understand that it is unhealthy to keep these things buried inside.”

“Yeah?” Will laughs. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“I had a healthy outlet.”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot that  _ murdering and eating people  _ was considered a healthy outlet. I don’t have time for this right now.”

A hand grips his shoulder, iron and unmoving. “This is not a conversation you can keep running from.”

“What the fuck do you want to hear? Do you want to hear about how I rarely hooked up with men after that because I was afraid, or maybe that I slept my way through half the police academy? There’s literally  _ nothing  _ I could tell you that wouldn’t make you angry.”

The hand tightens. “How about the truth?”

“ _ Let me go,”  _ Will hisses, teeth clenched. “I have to make six chairs and a dining table by the end of the month.”

Instead of releasing him, Hannibal spins him around to face him. “Selling furniture is not more important than this conversation.”

“Alright, go ahead and tell that to the Corsican mafia and see how that goes over.”

Hannibal’s face goes unsettlingly blank the way it only does when Will knows he’s in deep shit. “You continue to aid them.”

“They keep asking. Are you really that surprised?”

“I am struggling to understand why you keep agreeing.”

“Really, Hannibal?” And then it spills out of him. “I’m sorry, I thought it was stupidly obvious that they have something on me. Clearly I was wrong.”

The hands tighten to the point of pain and Will finally pries them off his shoulders himself. “You are being blackmailed.”

“Nope,” Will tries to backpedal. “Man, I sure do love the mafia and making chairs and fixing sinks and fountains and scrubbing blood out of the carpet.”

“What do they have on you?”

“This is why I didn’t want to say anything! You can’t go in guns blazing to  _ fight the mob.  _ I don’t even know who the hell lives in that mansion but if they’re someone high up enough you’ll be signing our death warrants.”

“Evidence can be erased.”

“Not this one.”

“I am more than capable of-”

“It’s you, okay?” Will finally shouts. “What they have on me is  _ you. _ ”

Hannibal falls eerily silent. “We are under no suspicion of wrongdoing.”

“Yes.” Will pushes Hannibal back and the man actually  _ goes.  _ “No one thinks you’re the Ripper. But you’re not  _ only  _ the Ripper, and you know what? I  _ really  _ wish I had heard about your little rampage in Italy from you and not from having it dangled in front of my face by the mafia.”

“Will, I-” Hannibal reaches for him.

“Don’t touch me,” Will hisses, and the outstretched hand freezes in midair. “How many times do I have to tell you that I accept you-  _ all  _ of you- before you fucking believe it? This is what happens when you keep lying to me. You can’t fix this, so I have to do it for you.”

With that, he turns on his heels and shuts himself in his workshop. This time Hannibal makes no moves to stop him.

Will made the table and chairs as ugly as he possibly could have in hopes that Brise de Mer would be so disgusted with the result that they’d never ask him to make them any more. He cannot, apparently, make them any less structurally sound, and that unfortunately turns out to have been the more important factor and he finds new employment as a result. Regretfully, he has to quit working on the docks, leaving with a promise to the harbormaster that he can always call on him for help if things get bad. Between all the furniture he has to keep making and the times he’s called out to fix basically anything, he barely has any time for himself, and  _ definitely  _ doesn’t have any time to go out at night.

Things with Hannibal aren’t any better. His partner hasn’t attempted to bring up old ghosts since their last fight but he’s so careful with what he says around Will that it makes him feel like he’s made of glass. They haven’t had sex in over a month and it’s a miracle they’re even managing to tolerate sleeping in the same bed. In some ways, it’s like he’s reverted back to how he was when they first met, helpful and empathetic and supportive. 

That’s how he knows it’s fake. If this is a punishment, it’s  _ working.  _

Will is rooting through the house when Hannibal is not home, searching desperately for some way to burn it all back down around them. What he wants isn’t some mocking caricature of the perfect partner, loving and kind and generous. He fell in love with a monster and he wants the monster  _ back. _

The quickest way to get Hannibal back to normal is to piss him off but he has to piss him off correctly. Veering too far in the wrong direction could end with Hannibal attempting to fight the entire mafia or even just killing Will and being done with it all. He’d regret it later, sure, but Will’s stint in jail proves that that doesn’t mean it’s not a possibility.

He’s rooting around in a wardrobe as he thinks. So what does Hannibal hate? Above all else, rudeness, but he’s obviously made an exception for Will so that route wouldn’t work. Next to that… losing control. As if on cue he finds a hidden latch at the bottom and pulls it, causing the wooden panel to lift. There’s at least an 80% chance it’s just knives and bleach and plastic overcoats- but this time, it’s not, and Will smiles.

A conversation comes back to him; when they had decided on a safeword. In between the many times he had hammered home the seriousness of what Will had been asking him, something else had come up.

_ “Are you going to expect me to be this thorough beforehand when I’m the one doing something to you instead?” _

_ “Of course not,” Hannibal had said smoothly. “You needn’t discuss anything beforehand, in fact. Anything you may wish to do to me would be welcomed. All I ask is that you do not remove my ability to speak entirely.” _

At the time Will had forcibly moved on, not particularly wanting to dwell on the implications of what Hannibal had been suggesting. Now? Now, as he looks down into the contents of the hidden compartment, a plan is forming in his mind.

There’s no sense in rushing things. He can bide his time, do his research, act like everything is fine until it’s time to strike. It probably wouldn’t be the best idea to do this while he’s still keyed up and manic and  _ angry  _ so he forces himself to clear time one day, one night, to go out. Maybe once he’s let all this energy flow out of him he’ll reconsider altogether. Form a different plan, less angry and violent and provocative. 

Maybe.

He goes to a larger club, one of the biggest in the area, one he knows won’t play anything that sends him anywhere dangerous. Tonight, this early, they’re playing more mainstream EDM, all steady basslines and consistent melodies. It’s perfect, exactly what he asked for, easy to lose himself in and fade away into the crowd.

And then it’s all ruined when he steps off the main floor, seeking water, and someone fucking  _ touches him. _

The hand on his shoulder is connected to a bouncer for the club, tall, imposing and wearing a dark suit- “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Will hisses.

All of the emotions he had been trying to shake come rushing back full force, anger leading the pack. “Your assistance is required,” the fake boss informs him. 

Of  _ course  _ Brise de Mer runs some of the biggest clubs in this area. Of  _ course _ he managed to fucking pick one of them. “Can it  _ wait?”  _ Will grinds out. “I’m a little busy.”

The viciousness of the retort catches the man off guard. “We… may be able to postpone the bulk of it.” It’s next to impossible to hear the man’s voice over the roar of the music, calling for him to return.

The bulk of it. So whatever happened, the damage was widespread. Chances are high he’ll be coming into direct contact with more gore yet again. “Fine.” Will slaps the hand away. “Fucking fine. I don’t have my car so unless you want me arriving past midnight, at least find someone to drive me there.”

Someone ends up being the fake boss himself, leading Will to a sleek black Maserati and driving him there mostly in silence. Upon arrival, he asks Will to wait, pulling out a phone and calling someone, speaking in rapid French. It seems that they don’t know Will speaks the language based on the conversation.

_ “I have brought the handyman,”  _ Fake Boss says, then there is silence as he waits for the reply.  _ “Is the area safe? It’s contained? Good.”  _

Will leans forward, getting a better view of the mansion, movement on the upper levels catching his attention through the windows. Figures moving by rapidly followed by one slamming bodily into the window. “I’m sorry, is there still shit going on here? Right now?” The fake boss turns towards him in surprise. “Yeah, sorry buddy, I speak French. Find a different language if you want to hide things from the idiot American.”

“The boss is unsure when things may be resolved but they are confident you will not encounter any danger.” That was probably the only good thing that had happened recently- after his outburst, the charade had been dropped. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Will mutters, opening the passenger side door and sliding out of the car. “So what was so urgent?”

Fake Boss exits the car as well. “The sink with the garbage disposal, if you recall. It needs to be repaired to an operating state as soon as possible.” He starts walking towards the house, moving around to a side door, faltering when he realizes Will has not followed him.

“A sink?” Will exhales, voice dangerously quiet. “A fucking  _ sink?” _

“That is the only sink in the kitchen and the boss wishes to make breakfast-”

“How many sinks are in this house. Thirty? Forty? You interrupted me on the first night out I’ve had time for in  _ two months  _ to fix a fucking  _ sink?” _

“Most of the other sinks are also broken,” Fake Boss helpfully adds.

Will closes his eyes, takes one deep breath, then two. When he reopens them his hands are balled into fists. “I will fix this sink,” he says slowly, “and you won’t even  _ think  _ about bothering me at  _ all  _ tomorrow. I don’t care if you shatter every toilet in the house and have to piss in the  _ one working sink _ .”

The man’s expression barely changes, which at least means he’s not upset. “I will speak to the boss,” he eventually says. “Now- the sink.”

They were nice enough to drag the body away this time, though there are streaks of blood along the walls in most of the rooms and obvious signs of a struggle. The even more obvious signs of such come from upstairs, loud thumps and bangs and the occasional choked off scream. Will ignores all of it and approaches the sink. “Same as last time?” he sighs.

Fake Boss nods, eyes drifting upwards. “I am needed elsewhere. Some tools are on the counter. If you require anything more, simply inform Antonio.”

Antonio turns out to be a large man exuding an aura that makes Will want to punch him very badly. Instead, he finds the breakers and cuts electricity to the kitchen, Antonio following him like a shadow.

Despite Will’s wishes to the contrary, this man does not seem to be the type to idly stand watch as Will takes the garbage disposal apart piece by piece. “Have we interrupted your fun, chérie?”

The clothes Will is wearing aren’t really what would serve him well for fixing a sink since he hadn’t exactly planned on this outing. Close fitting pants and an even closer fitting t-shirt, stuck to his skin with sweat. Spitefully, he hopes he stinks, though it may be hard to notice over the coppery scent of blood soaking into the house. It’s safer to just ignore the provocation altogether. Will keeps working, wisely keeping his head far enough away that when he pulls out the trap to address the clog directly, the blood and stomach-turning mush that flows out hits nothing further than his wrists. It’s collected into a pile in the tarp-lined container set up beneath to catch the remains. It looks clear beyond that so he sets it aside to pull out the rest of the piping needed to access the disposal itself. 

It happens when he has the wrench back in hand- an unwanted feeling, rough hands gripping his ass. “Seriously?” he mutters. He’s not even bent over anything, he’s flat on his back slid underneath the sink. The hands grip harder and he hits the absolute  _ limit  _ if bullshit he’s capable of tolerating today. Quickly and precisely, he pulls a foot back and kicks the person groping him back and away.

It coincides with a sharp pop and for a moment Will thinks he managed to kick the person in the face and knock out some teeth. He slides out from underneath the sink to see Antonio scrambling backwards on the tile, blood pouring out of his nose. He  _ had _ hit the face, then, but sadly there is a distinct lack of bloody teeth littering the floor. “ _ Putain!”  _ The man spits. “Fucking bitch!”

Will stands slowly, loosening his grip on the wrench to shift it, tightening his fingers around the handle while the top dangles below. He takes a step forwards-

“Ah, I see you’re already working!” The voice rings through the room, one Will has never heard before, a voice that makes Antonio  _ stiffen.  _ The source soon waltzes into view- a younger man, younger than Will, dressed in expensive clothes from head to toe. Blood streaks across said clothes more often than it does not. In one hand he holds a bloody pair of pliers and in the other dangles a gun.

_ A gunshot,  _ Will realizes.  _ The sound earlier was a gunshot. _

“B-Boss,” Antonio stutters, and Will freezes. He glances up, makes eye contact just long enough to confirm his fears that this is the  _ real  _ person in charge of this particular branch of Brise de Mer. Ideally, Will never even would have met him. It’s far too late for that now.

“What have I told you about keeping your hands to yourself?” the newcomer chastises, punctuated with a swift kick to the man’s stomach that has him doubling over.

“Y-Yes boss!” Antonio sputters. 

“I think you should leave.” 

It’s almost impressive how quickly the larger man scrambles out of the room. Unfortunately, this leaves Will alone with something he very much does not want to be alone with. “You must accept my apologies for never greeting you before now.” The boss glances down at both his occupied hands before dropping the pliers to the floor with a clatter and offering the bloody hand out for a handshake. 

Will looks down at his equally red hands, bites back a shrug and accepts it. 

The man continues speaking. “I would provide my name, but…” he trails off. “My men call me Vermeil.”

Will  _ really  _ wishes this man had at least waited until he was back under the sink before dropping this particular nugget of information because he is utterly unable to keep the disbelief off of his face. “Vermeil,” he repeats, deadpan, and the rest comes out before he can stop it. “Did I fall asleep and wake up in a shitty mobster movie?”

Thankfully, by some horrific fluke of what can barely be considered luck, the man seems to find his response amusing and it makes him laugh. “Well, you are not one of my men. I do not particularly care what you call me.”

“Merde,” Will mutters, managing to pass it off as a muttered explicative instead of the suggestion of a name it had actually been. 

Weirdly, the man laughs again. “You can call me Merde as long as you keep making me those sharp chairs of yours.”

Will winces. He had made the furniture sharp and angular and uncomfortable to sit on, and it seems that they were simply repurposed as weapons instead. He gestures vaguely to the sink and Merde nods. Unfortunately, that is not followed by him leaving. “Silvain has told me that we seem to have worked you a touch too hard.”

That must be the actual name of Fake Boss. “Well, you know,” Will replies aimlessly from beneath the sink. 

“Perhaps I will find ways to accomplish the simpler tasks without you. It would not do to wear you down to the point of uselessness, after all.”

“How generous of you,” Will hisses. He has the guts of the disposal open to him now and quickly finds the problem. “It may help if you stop shoving people’s hands down the garbage disposal.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” the man responds cheerfully and Will groans internally. He really does  _ not  _ need another psychopath in his life. It’s hard enough to deal with one. 

“Don’t you have business upstairs?”

“Resolved earlier than anticipated. I must apologize for my men- some of them seem to think of you as the monster’s wife and nothing more.”

“And you don’t.”

When he speaks again, the voice is suddenly much closer, and Will feels a blade press against his stomach. He looks down to see a replacement for the broken blades in the disposal being handed to him in a distinctly threatening manner. “A man that vanished from a nightclub, was it? No one particularly misses him.” Will holds the man’s gaze, taking hold of the offered part. “It is fortunate that I arrived before you were forced to do something you would later regret.”

They hold eye contact for a beat more before Merde finally releases the blades and backs away. Under the sink, Will closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to calm himself. 

After some silence where Will dutifully works on the sink, Merde speaks again. “You are a unique asset. One I would be loath to lose.”

“I’m pretty sure you could teach one of your men to fix a sink,” Will grunts, spinning the new blades manually to make sure everything moves correctly. Satisfied, he starts putting the sink back together. 

“Mother likes your work,” Merde says casually. The words, for some reason, send a chill down Will’s spine.

“Your mother,” he clarifies.

“She owns this house, though she is far too busy to visit it often. Things are left to me instead. Your work with the fountain impressed her in particular.”

It had been harder than expected to fix, especially when Will found a  _ bone _ wedged inside of the piping, something that should have been outright impossible. He’s concentrating really hard on reassembling the sink so his mind doesn’t pick apart the conversation instead. “I’m glad she approved.”

Finished, Will slides out from beneath the sink after turning the water back on. Assuming he hasn’t made a mistake it should all be working properly. “Silvain,” Merde calls out. “The breakers, if you will?”

Will almost jumps with how quickly they click back on. Instead, he calmly runs the water and turns on the disposal. Everything works perfectly. “Should be good now. Stop putting limbs down it. Get a blender or something instead if you have to.” 

“Wonderful!” Merde grins as he approaches them. “You know, a man of your talents would be welcome among my men.”

And there it is. “I have no interest in joining the mafia,” Will answers, carefully keeping his voice even. “And if you ever try to force me I can promise that you will never see me again.”

“Our reach is wide.” It’s not  _ quite  _ a threat.

“We can test that if you really want.”

The smile that emerges on the other man’s face is small and cruel. “Not wise, I suppose. Such a shame. Perhaps in the future, you may change your mind. For now- feel free to use the fruits of your efforts to clean yourself. Silvain?” The man in question enters the room. “I do believe we have interrupted our fine repairman in the middle of a night out. Do drop him off where he may continue his fun, will you?”

“Yes, boss,” SIlvain answers softly. Will washes his arms off in the sink and tries  _ very very hard  _ not to think about anything that just happened.

Silvain is equally silent on the drive back, speaking only once to ask where Will wants to be dropped off. “Somewhere still open that isn’t owned by you freaks,” is all he gets as a response. 

He stumbles inside the club and knows the moment he can hear the music that this is a terrible fucking idea, the beat is fast and relentless and everything feels just the slightest bit  _ off.  _ It’s the perfect ending to this utter shitshow of an evening. Eventually he’s going to need to go home and talk to Hannibal and stop running away from everything- he  _ can’t  _ anymore, this has officially turned into too much for him to brush off as unimportant. It’s all just  _ too much. _

He slips into the crowd and lets it all wash away.

Normally, the music is at least mostly predictable, the consistency of it reassuring and centering him. Now, here, it’s too fast to keep up with and everything ends wrong, building up and up only to plummet back down, swelling up at unpredictable times. Everything feels jagged and energized, fitting together seamlessly despite the awkward edges. It flows through him, lighting up his nerves, filling him to the brim with the frantic energy pulsing throughout the crowd. It feels like anything is possible and nothing has consequences.

It’s dangerous, some part of him recognizes that, but everyone is jumping and moving with the beat, the air damp with sweat, and it all feels so dirty and unhinged and  _ perfect.  _ Every doubt, every frustration, every tiny bit of anger fuses together and bursts out into the atmosphere. The bass thumps through the building like a heartbeat, racing from exertion. At least for now, he forgets about the mafia, he forgets about what happened in college, he forgets about everything. 

But even here, he doesn’t forget about Hannibal.

The speed of the music varies, but it’s always fast. Some of it dips down until it’s almost slow enough to be safe but it always speeds back up after, flinging away any thoughts beyond simply  _ move.  _ It never stays static long enough for him to feel comfortable, never enough for him to relax and let everything vanish. It feels more like everything is pushed aside, just for now, to make way for the restless, endless energy that takes its place.  _ This is bad,  _ a part of him recognizes.  _ You’re going to do something you regret.  _ And he promptly tells himself to fuck off.

He’s sick and fucking tired of everyone telling him what’s best for himself. Fuck Hannibal for telling him he needs to ‘talk about it’. Fuck Merde and his stupid shitty gang for interrupting his night, for stopping him from bashing that pervert’s face in with the wrench until his brain leaked out his ears. Fuck  _ everyone.  _ Everything that isn’t here, this unforgiving beat, all these people around him, unaware of what’s among them, totally fucking  _ blind  _ to the danger they’re all in-

Will forces himself out of the club, gasping into the cold night air. A beer bottle is clenched in a white-knuckled grip. When had he even picked it up? How long had he held it and what was he planning on doing with it? He drops it with a shudder and stumbles away.

Fruitlessly, he hopes walking back to the house will purge this feeling but all it does is dull and fade into the background. By the time he returns home he’s shivering, never quite sure if it’s from the cold or the feelings stuck inside of him.

Hannibal is asleep in the bedroom, illuminated by the moonlight. All at once the feelings solidify into one overpowering desire. Will smiles and embraces the urge to  _ break. _

The next day, Will acts as if all is normal, as if he isn’t waiting for the right moment to bring a reckoning down on the other man. He has it in his pocket. It’s obviously meant for him, he’s done more than enough research of his own into it to be sure of it, which means it won’t be quite as effective on Hannibal. He’ll need to move quickly. After dinner, they always end the day in the study. It seems like the night is coming to a close. “Hannibal,” Will murmurs softly, standing. “Come here.”

Hannibal closes his book and sets it to the side, standing to meet Will. Fake as ever, he comes when beckoned.

Once the man is close enough Will wraps his fingers around Hannibal’s wrist, jerking him forward and against his chest, slipping the syringe out of his pocket and plunging it into Hannibal’s neck, injecting the contents inside. The man stiffens but does not fight it, falling lax against Will’s form.

It’s not like Will’s weak; he just doesn’t have the same nearly superhuman strength that Hannibal does. With some difficulty, he drapes the unconscious man over his shoulder and carries him up the stairs, nearly throwing him down onto their bed. Before he strips the other man he goes to the wardrobe, flipping up the hidden panel and pulling out the duffel bag that lays inside, setting it on the bed where there is space. Undressing Hannibal is a struggle. How the hell does his partner do it to the people he kills? Then again, it must be far easier when you don’t have to worry about the clothes being worn again.

Part of Will wants to throw the pieces of the suit all over the bedroom but he remembers how Hannibal hadn’t even struggled, how he let himself be drugged so easily. With a sigh, he carefully hangs up every piece of Hannibal’s clothing. His own, at least, he can litter around the bedroom, after something more important has been done. 

Will unzips the duffle bag, digging around and pulling out two sets of matching leather cuffs, adjustable straps of leather dangling from each one, loops hanging empty to connect them together if needed. The insides feel quite soft. It would be difficult to injure oneself on them. It takes some fiddling to adjust them to Hannibal’s size but once they’re all on it’s time to find a place to anchor them to. The hands are easy enough- Hannibal still has whatever weird spire fixation he had when he chose his bed frame back in Baltimore. These, at least, feel much sturdier, and Will doubts he could break them himself no matter how hard he tried. He loops the straps around one on each side, tying them so tightly that there is no chance of them coming undone by mistake.

The ankles are more difficult and in the end he has to tie them to the legs of the bed. The end result is Hannibal, spread eagle on the bed with very little room for movement. 

Perfect.

There are a great many things left in the bag but Will only needs a few. Lube, obviously, and a dildo- no, it’s a vibrator, that’s why he chose it, and it has a controller. He tosses the bag onto the floor carelessly, as his clothes had landed moments before.

First things first- Hannibal is just sort of asleep and unresponsive. He tries jerking the man off but his cock remains soft and uninterested. Will regards it with a frown. If the sedative is too strong, this may not work altogether. An idea hits him and he climbs on top of the man, sliding his hips back until the rest above his crotch, and he leans down and whispers in the unconscious man’s ear. “ _ Hannibal.”  _ When he feels the cock jump against his ass, he grins.

He leans back, picks up the dick gently, pressing it between the globes of his ass, and rocks back into it. “Hannibal,” he says, louder this time. “What exactly was it that you said to me?  _ Anything you may wish to do to me would be welcomed? _ ” He grinds back, harder, feeling the dick swell and harden against him. “How about this, then?”

Abruptly, Will stops, climbs back down between the man’s legs, running a finger along his nearly fully hardened cock. He grabs the vibrator, coats it with lube, runs the tip of it down Hannibal’s chest to leave a slick trail as it goes. Down further and further, across his abs, around the base of his cock, past his balls to press the tip against his entrance. Gently, Will presses it inside, going slowly to see if he encounters resistance- Hannibal should be relaxed in his unconsciousness, but he does not want to take the chance and hurt the man by mistake. Luckily it slides in without issue.

Will picks up the control, turns the vibe to the lowest setting, and leaves the room entirely.

He hadn’t really planned this part out. The dosage, applied to himself, should have kept him knocked out for a solid hour, so all he knows is that it will be less for Hannibal. By his own estimate he has roughly thirty minutes to kill before Hannibal is in danger of rousing. In the end he just wanders the house aimlessly, stark naked, thankful they don’t have any neighbors.

When he returns Hannibal is flushed with arousal, murmuring something in his forced slumber, cock hard and weeping. It seems he is going to wake soon. Will climbs back on the bed to see if he can speed up the process. Reaching for the discarded bottle, he lubes up Hannibal’s cock, crawling back upwards before finally lining the head up and sinking down onto it with a sigh. It’s a sensation he had missed, truthfully, and his own cock twitches with interest. It’s not quite time yet. He sits here, watching, waiting for the moment Hannibal’s eyes open, leaning back so he has a grip on the controller.

The second he sees eyelids opening to reveal a hazy gaze, he clicks the vibrator up to the highest setting.

Hannibal’s hips buck up into him- or at least they try, barely moving more than an inch with how he’s restrained on the bed. A growl slips out of his mouth and Will  _ laughs.  _

“Sorry, have you given up on the whole ‘pretending to be a normal person again’ thing? Thank god, that shit was getting old.”

“Will,” he manages to say. His words sound thick and shaky in his mouth. “Is this your way of punishing me?”

“If this was strictly a punishment you sure as shit wouldn’t be involved,” Will huffs, adjusting himself on Hannibal’s lap. “Maybe I just needed to blow off some fucking steam.”

“I thought-” Hannibal’s words choke off into a gasp as Will raises his hips and drops them back teasingly slow. 

“Stop thinking for me,” Will smiles, bitter. “You should know better than to think you know what’s best for me by now.”

It was a low blow, and Hannibal grimaces. “Fair enough, I suppose.”

“Did you miss this?” Will taunts, smiling as he rolls his hips. “It’s been so long since you touched me, you know. How does it feel? Is it too much?”

“You’ve been-” The words choke off into a gasp, but Hannibal continues. “Busy. Exhausted.”

“And since when do you give a shit about how  _ I  _ feel?” It’s just as pointed as everything else had been, mocking and cruel, but-

“It may be more accurate to ask when I realized that I truly did,” Hannibal tells him.

Will bares his teeth. This was wrong, this was supposed to hurt  _ Hannibal,  _ not him, make him reconsider the way he’d been acting- “Shut up,” Will hisses. “Shut the fuck up and let me use you.”

It’s worded very carefully, perfectly, just enough to tip Hannibal over into true anger, and he snarls in response. To that, Will can only laugh. He moves, faster now, tilting his hips the way that makes it feel the best, throwing his head back and closing his eyes, ignoring the way Hannibal is shifting and squirming underneath him, ignoring the way Hannibal throws his weight all to the upper right, ignores the thunderous crack-

A foot plants itself on his chest, kicking him back and off of Hannibal, nearly sending him crashing backwards down onto the bed before he catches himself. Will reacts quickly, grabbing Hannibal’s shin and folding the leg up to his chest, pulling at the leather strap until he reaches the end.

In his hand, impossibly, rests the (former) leg of the bed. Hannibal is regarding him with a nearly murderous fury.

“Oh,” Will laughs. “Okay, is this what we’re doing?” He pulls the vibrator out, barely remembering to turn it off before slapping it off of the bed. Spreading Hannibal’s legs, he moves into position, a hand at the small of the man’s back lifting his hips enough that Will can slide himself into the recently vacated space. “How about this. Is this what you wanted?”

From the way Hannibal tightens around him, it seems like the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. The way the man is shifting his arms, pulling at the bindings on the upper right, diagonally across from the leg he managed to free, indicates that he still has other plans. “No you don’t,” Will growls, pressing the leg of the bed across the man’s throat and thrusting forwards. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” It’s obvious the man wants to fire back with a retort of his own but Will refuses to let him. Instead he fucks into the man beneath him, raising his hips until Hannibal’s back starts to arch with every thrust, until he’s panting and moaning beneath him, reduced to a mess of arousal and anger, just like Will is. Seeing him like this, entirely at his mercy, sends a thrill up Will’s spine, the way such a monster is submitting to him, can do nothing more than let himself be used. They way he clearly likes it.

Will’s so lost in it that he is caught entirely off guard by another terrible crack followed by an arm curling around his throat. “You’ve  _ got- _ ” is all he gets out before the pressure increases and all he can get out is a wheeze. As his vision darkens at the edges he loses his grip on Hannibal’s leg, on the bed’s leg, both slipping out of his grasp-

The leg curves around his back, urging him forwards, and his orgasm is ripped from him so suddenly it’s nearly painful.

All at once the arm releases him and this time Will does fall backwards, chest heaving and arms scrabbling at his throat, seeking to dislodge a pressure that no longer remains. “What a shame,” he hears Hannibal say, distantly. “I suppose I will have to find my satisfaction elsewhere.” His hands are pulled away and replaced with a broader one across his neck, not choking, simply holding him in place. He barely registers the fact that a second hand is lifting up his leg until Hannibal thrusts into him and everything snaps back into focus.

Will makes a high noise, oversensitive from his recent orgasm, trying to back away from the invading sensation. Hannibal, free as a bird, is looming over him. “In a way, this is your fault,” Hannibal sighs. “If you had not come so early we would not be in this situation to begin with.”

There is so much Will wants to scream back, but all that comes out of him are whines and whimpers. He knows, if he tries hard enough, he can pull himself together enough to say a single word. “Fuckoff,” he moans, slurring it together.

“Crude, Will,” Hannibal admonishes. He fucks in hard and targeted, sending pleasure arcing through Will’s body, cutting through the pain. It’s overwhelming and blinding. Everything is amplified, every nerve in his body is lighting up, the heat of Hannibal inside him like a brand, every collision with his swollen prostate making his body spasm. “Is it too much?” Hannibal asks, mocking. “I hope it is.”

Another whine escapes Will and in response Hannibal starts moving faster. The bed rattles dangerously beneath them, off balance, and suddenly Hannibal’s hands move, one beneath his neck and the other supporting his head and the world tilts with a horrible splitting noise. Everything seems foggy and far away but Hannibal is so warm and close, Hannibal who had been distant and strange, and when he tries to pull away Will reaches out and wraps his arms and legs around him to stop him from leaving. 

He can hear a sharp intake of breath from the man on top of him, one arm reaching out to do god knows what, but he at least seems satisfied with the results because he curls it back around Will’s shoulder, chests pressed tight together, and starts moving his hips.

Something about this, it feels like Will can’t tell where he ends and Hannibal begins. He hitches his legs up higher, buries his face in the crook of Hannibal’s neck, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Every thrust reverberates throughout his entire body. It’s all-consuming, the only thing he thinks he’s capable of feeling right now, the way only Hannibal’s hips are moving, how fucking good it feels-

_ Oh, _ Will realizes as his body shudders and tightens, pleasure rippling through him.  _ I’m coming again. _

“Will,” Hannibal exhales, faltering, pulling back, Will falling loose and limp in his grip, the world going hazy and warm and unfocused again as the pleasure takes over. “You-” The man’s eyes are wide with surprise. He suddenly jolts forwards, teeth bared, looking for all the world like his own orgasm has startled him. Their bodies collapse together onto the mattress, Hannibal’s forehead hidden against Will’s shoulder.

Time seems malleable. For all he knew, they could have been there for a full day before Will finally comes back to himself. Hannibal, for his part, is alert and awake, watching Will intently.

The first solid thought that Will has is that something is  _ very  _ wrong with their position. Carefully, he reaches a hand up, connecting with the floor, following it towards them until it turns into the edge of the bed frame that is apparently now missing both back legs. He sighs.

“What are you thinking, Will?” When Hannibal asks, it’s soft.

“That we should probably get a metal bed frame next time,” Will grumbles, and Hannibal actually laughs. 

It’s hard to separate himself from Hannibal- not for any sweeping romantic reasons, but because Hannibal refuses to let him go until he is positive that neither of them suffered spinal injuries when the bed collapsed forwards. “It fell six inches at most,” Will mutters.

“A sudden stop can always do damage,” Hannibal insists. Both of them seem to have functioning spines so eventually Will is released and drags himself to the shower, Hannibal trailing behind.

“I think I’d die if you fucked me again in here,” Will groans as Hannibal massages his scalp.

“While I knew you were sensitive, I must admit I was surprised to find that you could be pushed into multiple orgasms. Something we should explore further, I think.” Will just sort of grunts in response. “Will you tell me what happened?”

“You are  _ not  _ bringing this up again right now.”

“Apologies,” Hannibal relents. But what he says next is unexpected. “I should have been more clear. Something happened, today.”

“I changed my mind. You can finger me until I have a heart attack and die if it means you shut up.”

The shiver that runs through Hannibal at the words is undeniable, but the man has always had a freakish level of control over his own urges. “Tell me, Will. Please.”

Will sighs, dropping his head forward and closing his eyes as Hannibal rinses away the shampoo. “It’s. The mafia thing. It’s worse than I thought.”

“How so?”

“I wasn’t planning on keeping this a secret, okay? I just wasn’t planning on telling you right this second. So don’t think I was going to hide this from you.” Hannibal remains silent, waiting. “Until tonight, I hadn’t ever interacted with whoever was in charge of whatever the hell goes on in that place. And I was fine with that.”

“I take it you finally met them.”

Will turns, faces Hannibal, looks him in the eyes when he speaks. “He’s the son of one of the heads of Brise de Mer and I’ve been building chairs and fixing the plumbing for what amounts to a fucking kill house.”

Unsurprisingly, Hannibal’s expression darkens. “That is unacceptable.”

“Okay, hold on.” Will holds his hands up. “Yeah, it’s not great. I don’t exactly  _ want  _ to be involved with this. But they have  _ way  _ more on both of us than they let on. At least for now… he called me a ‘valuable asset’. He  _ knows  _ that if this falls apart it will end in blood on both sides.”

“And what happens when they grow tired of you? When you no longer remain useful to them and instead become a liability?”

“So what’s your solution?” Will snaps. “See how many of them you can kill before you get gunned down?” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and forces himself to calm. “Look. All I have to do is go along with what they ask for now.”

“They will keep asking for more and more until you have nothing left to give.”

“He already asked me to join his little gang and I told him to go fuck himself.” Will pauses. “Saying it out loud like that, I’m amazed I’m still alive.”

Hannibal drops his forehead down onto Will’s shoulder. “Will, this is a dangerous situation. You must tread carefully.”

“I know,” Will murmurs. “I will. I promise.”

“What happens when it becomes too much to bear?”

“Then we leave again.” Hannibal’s hands tighten around him. “I- I love it here, I do. But being with you is more important than the peace we’ve created here.”

“Even if we are forced to run for the rest of our lives?”

“Even then,” Will admits. “Nothing else matters if I’m not with you.”

When he pulls back, Hannibal is looking at him like he hung the moon and stars. The realization hits him like a ton of bricks that the sentiment is totally, utterly sincere. Hannibal- an unfeeling sociopath, by most people’s definition- is exactly as hopelessly in love as Will himself is.

“Let’s just sleep,” Will murmurs, suddenly exhausted. 

Hannibal gives him an odd look. “Where?”

The bed, broken and kneeling on the floor, floats to the forefront of Will’s mind. He shrugs. “Anywhere, as long as it’s together.”

And then Hannibal cups his chin and kisses him, lips curving up into a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> [DJ Shimamura - ANTENNA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZTzcpppilg)


End file.
